


Managing Love

by EbilChameleon



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Smut, Hunky Contractor! Bull, Im awful at making chapter stories short, M/M, Maybe a slow build?, Office Sex, Poor College! Dorian, Possibly More Tags To Come, Romance, Sappy Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-03 20:42:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4114303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbilChameleon/pseuds/EbilChameleon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He refused to rely on his family's wealth and name. He didn't want to inherit his father's success but find his own instead. But down south, he finds Tevinter mages aren't too welcome, especially Tevinter mages who had been the spotlight of scandal years before. </p><p>Fresh out of college, Dorian finds he's apparently unwelcome in the career field until one hulking Qunari he meets in a cafe, who surprisingly has no idea who he is, offers him a job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Welcome to Val Royeaux

His tongue ran over his teeth, sleek, smooth, and perfectly aligned. One hand rested over his mouth to hide its disgruntled quirk as the other hand held up the phone he was looking at. There was a number displayed on the screen, a number that confirmed he had limited options and incited mild panic within him. The decision was already made, mostly because there weren’t any others, and despite knowing what he already was going to say, he hesitated as though his prolonged pause would suddenly cause positive change and open more options.

He’d been searching for weeks now. This was his only option, dismal as it was.

He looked around the empty apartment, fully aware of the landlord’s narrowed eyes on him. The only sounds were the traffic outside and the _drip drip drip_ from the leaking faucet. The landlord cleared his throat, indirectly rushing him to speak his decision.

“Alright, then. Do you have the papers for the lease? I can pay the deposit today.”

The landlord, an older dwarf, possibly in his fifties with a thick auburn beard and wide bulbous nose, shuffled through the folder in his hands and moved to the countertop in the kitchen, setting a small stack of stapled papers down before plunking a pen on top.

He took up the pen, looking over the words of the contract one last time (he’d read it thoroughly three times already) and a chip in one of the tiles that made up the kitchen wall kept catching his eye. He put the pen tip to the paper and sighed quietly before signing his name.

_Dorian Pavus_

\-------------------

_“Is it truly so awful, dear? You seemed to jump quite quickly on the offer.”_

“Yellow, Viv, the walls are this Maker-awful mustard yellow. And not even bright mustard yellow, it’s all faded and dirty. Those walls haven’t seen a scrubbing in years, and a fresh coat of paint can’t have touched them in centuries, I swear.” Dorian sighed, straining to keep his voice quiet and in control. He looked down at his laptop in front of him and frowned, blowing on the keyboard to rid the fallen crumbs from the croissant he just finished. He hastily wiped at his mouth with his napkin, hoping there weren’t any pieces of his breakfast in his mustache that he ignored to clean away in the last few minutes. He didn’t need anyone in the café to see him so messy.

_“Well can’t we find a different shade to paint it? You said it’s dark in there; couldn’t we do something nice to brighten it up? A nice periwinkle or something?”_

His eyes skimmed over the website he was on, reading over the posted policy of the company’s website he was looking at. After bookmarking the page he clicked to the next tab and began his next investigation, clicking the _Career_ link and internally huffing at finding a web page much like every other company website he’d visited so far. “I already asked,” he spoke and squinted at the page. Maker he hoped he wouldn’t need glasses in the nearby future; they’d take away from the perfect curves of his cheekbones, he was certain. “My landlord leaves very much to be desired. I already inquired about retiling the bathroom, and I shudder to even _begin_ to ponder what horrors have happened in that room, yet he gave me a blank stare and shook his head. I don’t think he was expecting to take in a _‘pompous ‘Vint brat_ ’ when he posted his ad for the apartment. He called me that, by the way, muttered it on his way out after handing me the keys.” Dorian jotted down the phone number of the company he was looking at in his notebook, right under a long list of numbers and company names, some of which he’d already crossed out.

_“Oh my. Dorian, dear, are you sure you’ll be safe there? I’ve heard that part of the city has an…unsavory sort of populace. You know my offer stands.”_

“I know, I know,” he said off handedly. He leaned back, never having taken notice to how close he was leaning forward to the computer screen and rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. He noticed his server walking towards him and yes, he’d love a third cappuccino but when he clicked the browser tab that was displaying his banking account, he waved her off with disappointment and asked for his check instead. “I do plan on attempting to actually _live_ here though, gain some independence. I couldn’t intrude on your hospitality for so long.”

 _“Well no, dear,”_ Vivienne spoke, her words drawn out as if to simulate exasperation, _“But you can always intrude long enough to get on your feet and live in a_ nicer _part of the city. Speaking of which, how is the job search coming?”_  

Dorian had just logged into his email and opened a reply from a place he’d sent his resume to just days previously. _Magister Pavus,_ it started and he groaned in his head, already knowing where this was going and looking at the next line regardless. He deleted the email after the first five words, _We’re sorry to inform you,_ and said to Vivienne, “Quite well. I’ve gotten a few positive responses already.” He’d gone to four interviews, one of which was stopped short the moment the words “from Tevinter” and “mage” were out of his mouth. He was surprised enough they’d allowed him to stay past him speaking his name. He hadn’t heard back from the other three. He was certain if he wasn’t legally required to state whether he was a mage or not he’d get more offers. And it wasn’t just the fact that he was a mage per say, it was the fact that he was a _Tevinter_ mage that truly bent him over and screwed him through the floor. He scoffed; so much for anti-discrimination laws. “I am fresh out of college; I anticipated the difficulties of finding work in such well established companies.” His server passed by his table, setting the checkbook down with a smile and moved on to a table behind him. He looked at the bill, extraordinarily cheap by his standards or at the very least, his old standards, and fished his wallet from his pocket. Dorian cradled his phone between his ear and shoulder and continued, “There must be a place out there looking for my talents, I just know it.”

_“I’m sure dear, I’m sure. Dorian we’ll speak later, I’ve got a meeting with a client soon. Take care.”_

Her meeting was already late, Dorian knew, with her hasty retreat from their call. She’d already hung up before he could say goodbye and his phone stayed cradled on his shoulder, both hands already fishing around his wallet for his money. He pulled the few bills he had out, causing the coins he had to tumble, clinking over the table top and a few hit the floor. He cursed in Tevene, a habit he was trying to break, especially in public because of the stares he received. Quickly he set his phone down onto the table, bending sideways in his seat to retrieve one of the fallen coins. He snatched it between his fingers and straightened up, ready to look for the others when the last three coins were in his line of view along with a very large, very grey hand.

He followed the hand up one bare arm, forearm and bicep both rippling with huge muscle that connected to a broad shoulder and massive chest covered by a fitted white tank top. Dorian’s breath caught in his throat and he looked up at the hulking Qunari standing next to him. Frozen, he stared up at the man, his face rugged and lined with scars, one eye covered with a patch and his horns thick and wide and looking rough to the touch. He was stuck, partly in awe, partly in fear.

The Qunari looked back at him, brows furrowing slowly over a few seconds and he cleared his throat, moving his offered hand to put attention on it. “I suppose we could see how awkward this could get if you don’t take your money back.” He was still stuck for another moment, trying to comprehend what the giant had just said to him when the Qunari set the coins on the table before him. That overly large hand patted his shoulder before the Qunari walked away, muttering an amused, “Crazy ‘Vints.”

Just minutes after the encounter Dorian was shoving his laptop back in its bag and hastily leaving the café, face flush from embarrassment from having his usually flawless poise being so easily stripped from him by a single oxman.

\---------------

There was a single chair in his apartment, left behind by the last renters, and one of the legs was a few centimeters shorter than the others. When he first sat in it, it rocked, taking him by such surprise he’d almost been thrown to the floor. He clutched the small round table it went with (also left behind, complete with a lovely children’s drawing of a very fat cat in permanent marker) and sat still for a moment before rocking on the uneven legs a few times before sighing. He was sighing an awful lot, lately.

The day he officially moved in, the day he’d brought all of his belongings from Vivienne’s penthouse to here, he had sat in that chair in the complete silence of his new apartment, and just looked around.

The yellow walls were offensively repulsive, and he took a good five minutes to just glare at them in distaste. The ceiling was decorated with age-old brown water stains, the old gas stove had certainly seen some better days and hopefully better cooks than himself, and the floor boards were loaded with scuff marks and creaked when he walked. He had begun to take down all the curtains (and awful dark green that clashed appallingly with the walls), choking on more dust than he was sure he could find in the old archives in the Magisterium back home. He had quickly replaced them all, though, upon discovering his neighbors in the building across from his own were elderly nudists.

Dorian had only been in his apartment for nearly two weeks now and the only additional scenery came from the lumpy mattress he’d wrangled for cheap, the sheets and blanket he’d ended up buying which cost more than the mattress itself (he was sure he could forget about the questionable stains on the mattress if he covered them with Orlesian cotton and pretty red satin), a few cheap dishes and utensils, and a few of his outfits, neatly folded in some boxes. At this point, the tiny living room was merely an empty space to walk through to get from the kitchen to the single bedroom. Everything in the bathroom was contained in plastic bags as he wasn’t convinced the bleach he used to scrub every nook and cranny actually killed the residual germs he knew were in there. He had a cheap pair of flip flops he wore in the bathtub when he showered, mostly to feel comfortable and partly because there was a filmy layer of… _something_ …on the bottom that, no matter how much he scrubbed, seemed determined to stay. He was only starting to now feel just a tad cleaner after his showers rather than feeling dirtier as he had the week before, and he was even starting to get over his paranoia that he was going to catch some deadly infection just from setting foot in there.

It was miraculous, he realized one day, how this apartment was so empty and hollow to him and how much he recognized the exact same feeling from his family home, a home that was filled with trinkets and expensive furniture and paintings on every wall. Two vastly different settings, both feeling eerily similar. He’d left one hell and stepped right into another.

But he couldn’t allow himself to think such things. This was an opportunity, he reminded himself, however bad of a foot it was starting off on. This is what would make him better, set him apart; he was going to work his way up in the ranks of business by starting from nothing. He didn’t need his father’s company to be successful, this was something he could do on his own, he was sure of it.

Still…

He looked away from his computer for a moment, feeling a certain dull ache in his chest. Again, a familiar feeling, loneliness, which he’d easily gotten used to since his childhood. He glanced to the stack of books piled on the other end of the table, his ready go-to whenever he suffered this feeling. He’d drowned himself in literature as a child when it was obvious his ostracism from the other kids at school left him without many friends. He’d been quite alright at making friends when he was younger but was dreadful at keeping them. He found solace in reading and from then, books became his best friend. He thought of picking one of the books up now, something to easily distract him, a fantasy novel perhaps, but his overloaded mind knocked all willpower from him.

Outside the door he heard familiar stomping on the stairs and glanced to the clock hung on the wall by the pantry closet. It was almost six in the evening, meaning the neighbors who lived directly above him would begin to argue and stomp around. They’ve been doing this ritually since he moved in and while he thought that maybe last week had just been rough on them, when it continued on days after he understood that this was going to become his nightly entertainment.

Dorian patted his stomach as it growled, scowling at the laptop screen as his Solitaire record was displayed. _Games won: 12, Games played: 439._ For nearly 18 years of his life he’d acclimated to a set eating schedule and dinnertime fell at six every evening. That had changed when he entered university but stayed relatively close to normal and he’d never known a day of hunger in all his life. He stared at the pantry door as his laptop shut down and his stomach growled again. He could stare at the pantry all night long and he knew it would remain as empty as the day he arrived.

He decided to work instead, to take his mind off the hunger he was feeling, and sat tapping a pen against his notebook as he jotted down numbers and used the calculator on his phone to do computations. He’d already balanced his budget just two days ago but he always hoped that if he did it again that maybe, this time, the numbers would change in his favor and he could relax just a bit. He accessed his online banking account on his phone, feeling that sense of dread that was steadily growing more and more present shift in his gut, and when he looked at the number displayed it was just as he expected. His last two morning bills from the café had been withdrawn and so far, nothing else. Already his funds were lower than they’d ever been since he’d made the account and he was discomforted by this fact. He tapped the pen swiftly against his notebook, just staring at the number and wondering, briefly, what he was supposed to do if he didn’t manage to get a job soon. He had just over a two weeks before the first month of rent was due. He had enough to pay it, but beyond that he wasn’t exactly sure where he was to go from there. He knew, in the back of his mind, Vivienne’s offer was there but that would always be a very last resort. He wasn’t willing to rely on someone when he was so determined to make it strictly on his own. He wasn’t a pampered prince, not any longer. Clearly not, living in this shitty little apartment with its nudist neighbors and leaky kitchen sink.

Dorian stood from the chair, wishing to not think about _anything_ for the rest of the night and went to the fridge, pulling the door open and reaching for the only thing worthwhile and taking the bottle of dirt-cheap wine he’d purchased a few days back. The only other food items he had was a half carton of eggs (the only food he could cook that had any nutrition value) and multiple bottles of water (he knew well enough not to drink city tap water). He had purchased three bottles of wine and as he looked at the last bottle he frowned, knowing he’d have to wait a few more days before getting more.

He let the fridge door shut heavily behind him as he trudged through the empty living room, thick socks sliding across the worn wood, catching on a few unkempt boards and feeling a twinge in his skull with each creaking step. When he sat on the mattress he stared at the bottle in his hands, unscrewing the top (clearly cheap, not even a cork!) and took a long pull. He immediately gagged, the stuff bitter and too dry sliding down his throat and sitting hot in his stomach. He scoffed as though offended and quite frankly he was, but halfway through the bottle it no longer mattered that this wine wasn’t anywhere near his standards. _Tomorrow,_ he thought, _I will definitely get a job tomorrow._

\----------------

The email was short and blunt.

_Ser Pavus,_

_We regret to inform you that we no longer require a second interview, having found another prospect offering more experience and more relevant skills. Thank you for your time and expressed interest!_

He knew it was bullshit, though he didn’t doubt they’d found another person to fulfill the managerial position he’d applied for. He wasn’t an idiot and knew that _more relevant skills_ simply translated to _not Tevinter_ or _not a mage_ or perhaps it was both. It was three weeks since he’d moved to Val Royeaux  and he’d now gone to just over half a dozen interviews with nothing to show of it besides clear evidence that he was unwanted. He finished off the latte he’d ordered and wished he could have another. He brought up a few different local newspapers on his laptop when his eyes caught a glimpse of the Qunari at the front counter. Dorian had gotten into the habit of coming to this café each morning for the coffee and free wifi after Vivienne had brought him here when he first arrived in the city. After his first encounter with the strangely helpful Qunari, Dorian found that he was a regular morning frequenter as well. He’d done well enough to ignore him most mornings, too caught up with checking his email and scouring pages for potential work to really notice him.

This morning he stared, looking at the broad back of solid muscle, barely covered by the black tank top. He didn’t notice that his breathing picked up just a bit and his throat went a little dry. So distracted, he forgot to look away as the Qunari turned to leave with his to-go trays full of multiple coffee cups and the single eye of said Qunari caught his own. His face about melted from his heated blush from getting caught staring and the Qunari smirked at him, jerking his head a bit in greeting. “Hey, ‘Vint,” he said in that deep, gravelly voice before moving on and leaving.

Dorian groaned out loud without meaning to and moments later packed up his things and fled.


	2. Downward Slope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He keeps going down and its starting to look like he won't be making his way back up anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to mention before that this story was heavily influenced by a part in Sarah Dessen's "The Truth About Forever" namely when we find out how the main character's parents meet. I seriously love that book, it's one of my favorites. I felt that Dorian and Bull kinda fit quite well into Dessen's minor back story and I wanted to tweak it into this fandom.

“Dear, you’re losing weight, I’m going to have to do some tailoring. Or feed you.” Vivienne was shooting him some serious side-eye but Dorian ignored her, finishing an email and hesitating, thumb hovering over the _Send_ button. He was chewing his tongue nervously and took in a deep breath. A truly awful feeling in his stomach, like the after effect of being sucker punched, had settled there about a week ago and at first he’d hoped it was just too much of that awful wine but days later he came to understand it wasn’t going away until someone finally gave him the words _“You’re hired!”_

“Do mages often have this much trouble getting jobs here?” he asked, finally acting and sending the email he’d written. He was sitting on the plush leather couch in Vivienne’s studio, a place he’d been so many times since he was a child. When he first came here by himself he felt a bit out of place without his mother there to lead the conversation and float about the room, commenting on the racks of clothing designs Vivienne had displayed.

Vivienne was attending to a design that was fitted on a mannequin, a large box, reminiscent of a fishing tackle box, loaded with various spools of thread and needles and pins, sat open at her feet. Her hands worked a needle and thread through the dress she was working on, adding small intricate hand-sewn details that her designs were known for. “They don’t, to be honest.” She glanced to him again and Dorian picked his hung head up to meet her look. He couldn’t change his expression from the nervous, beaten down look it had adopted lately. “I’m sorry, dear, you know I don’t coddle and mother, and I’m being honest here. The truth hurts, but lying will get you nowhere. A mage can easily find work, that’s not the problem.” She finished the pattern she was working on, scorched the end of the thread with a touch of her own magic to keep it from unwinding, and cast another bit of magic to levitate a new thread spool to her hand. “You know as well as I do what the issue is. Scandal in the south isn’t as common as it is in Tevinter. It’s not so easily overshadowed by some new outrageous happening a few months later. It _sticks_ here and people remember.”

“So simply because I’m a Pavus-”

“ _The_ Pavus, dear. There’s a world of difference.” Dorian hung his head again and heard Vivienne sigh. A moment later her cold fingers touched his face and forced him to look up at her. Her smile was almost pitying. “You and I know the accusations against you were false. We know what really happened, along with your parents no matter what they say they believe. And there is someone here in this city who will see your name and have no idea who you are. And they’re going to hire you because you’re intelligent and talented and a hard worker. Trust me.”

\--------------

He’d known Vivienne for as long as he could remember.

She was very good friends with his mother far before he was even an idea, had been there at his parents’ wedding. As far as he knew, Viv was the one who was supposed to take over as his guardian should anything happen to his parents, and she’d had a present hand in raising him, being much more like an auntie than just a family friend. He’d spend weekends at her home in Val Royeaux and was always fashionably presentable, acting as a model for all of her earlier creations as he grew up. He’d been gifted with walking in a few of her fashion shows as a teenager, in the days where things had been far too easy and his biggest worries were homework and making sure his shoes paired well with his pants.

Vivienne was like a true saint, he knew, since after their talk in her studio she offered to treat him to a glorious dinner and he’d never said no to eating and drinking well in his life. It was such a flashback, with Viv dressing him up in an outfit from her new collection, all white with deep sapphire silk accents and flashy silver buckles. Vivienne had patted his cheek after he was dressed up, smiling somewhat wistfully and telling him, “Sapphire always looked so beautiful against your skin. Lights up those silver eyes.”

They’d gone to a restaurant in the inner village of the city, a familiar place she’d taken Dorian all throughout his childhood with the finest cuts of meat, freshest artisan bread, and luxuriously expensive wine. For that night, for the first time in weeks, Dorian felt as he had before coming to the city: relaxed, comfortable, happy. He and Vivienne laughed and visited the past and he ate so well, the first real meal he’d had in so long and it was so good, too good that he wanted to simultaneously scarf it down like a savage and take it slow and savor it. A lifetime of proper table manners prevented him from looking a fool at least, and he ate with grace, a grace he had in many of the things he did. He sipped and savored the wine, _good_ wine that was lightly sweet and warmed his cheeks, setting his palate alight with its fruity undertones and slightly woodsy smell. He’d be more than happy if he could just stay here for the rest of his days and never think about all the failed interviews and unreturned calls and emails. He took up Vivienne’s offer for dessert and scowled at her comments about his cheeks becoming too hollow and he rebutted, tipsy from the wine, that no one in the entire world would ever have cheekbones as perfectly curved as his own and that he’ll have the most beautiful face even when he’s nothing but bones in the ground.

He wasn’t so far gone when they left, Dorian full of good food and better wine and linger guilt for having Viv cover the bill, and he’d insisted multiple times he was perfectly capable of getting to the subway without assistance. He accepted Vivienne’s hug and wishes for him to be safe and to send her a text when he arrived home so she could sleep better knowing he was alright. There was something thick in his throat when he watched her turn to leave to her penthouse only two blocks away, and he couldn’t at all understand why his eyes were suddenly hot and misty. A deep breath of the inner city air (somehow seeming to be less polluted and troubling to breathe) quelled the heavy feeling that washed over him just a bit and he made his way to the subway, jumping onto the train that was about to depart back to his dreary little neighborhood.

The ride was only ten or so minutes long but it was enough time for his mood to steadily drop and for him to remember that he had to write out a check for his rent in the morning. He knew living on his own without his family’s funds to back him would be difficult but he hadn’t prepared himself for the nosedive into depression that would come along. He’d only known the finer things in life and this transition was like sliding from a house robe made of the finest silk (soft, easy, decadent) and being shoved into a burlap sack (coarse, itchy, and prone to chaffing). He was arrogant but so not much to know that his worries over not having nice wooden furniture and plush carpeting under his feet were incredibly mundane and selfish. But he did worry of the other more important things, like his rent and the lack of food he had and the dwindling bank account funds and the fact that he seemed to be as much of a pariah here as he was in Tevinter. He was used to being hated, mostly by other kids at school because of his wealth, and reflecting on that feeling, it was far easier to deal with knowing the others were simply jealous. But being ostracized for simply _being_ was a different feeling entirely and he’d gotten used to it in Tevinter after…after the _fiasco_ , but he’d hoped that coming to Orlais allowed him a fresh start that he clearly wasn’t getting.

He was quick to leave the train when it arrived at his stop and when he stepped up onto the streets he glanced about both ways. Other commuters stepped around him and he followed a small crowd. It was rather late, just past ten and the night sky was dark and without stars, the street light too bright and one along the way flickered eerily. He didn’t enjoy walking about the neighborhood at all, not with the sketchy people that liked to loiter, and he was aware that he was a clear target with his elaborate clothing and finely managed appearance. Even with how poor he was at the moment he still reeked of money. He couldn’t be blamed for the quickening pitter patter of his heart. He knew how he was supposed to be in this situation: blending in and looking unassuming without appearing weak or cocky.

Still, he kept his hand clenched around his mage’s pendant which brought mild comfort to him. It was easier when people couldn’t see his pendant, with its pure silver chain and dangling bloodstone framed in a silver frame. Mage’s pendants were usually small, not-so-flashy, meant to be easily overlooked by the mage themselves but noticed by everyone else. Dorian remembered reading in his history books of how mages used to haul around long staves that would help channel and control their magic but as the world evolved, carrying around a staff became too inconvenient. Tranquil enchanters worked to develop something to be just as effective as staves and also much easier to carry around as horses and walking were replaced by cars and trains. Each mage receives a pendant after completing their harrowing and Dorian remembered receiving his, holding the rather plain necklace of corded leather and a small quartz crystal. His father had been so proud of him that day, proud enough to immediately take him out and purchase him a more status-appropriate pendant of rose gold and ruby.

Being a mage was enough to make you a target. Tolerance against mages was far better than it had been centuries, hell even decades ago, but being in this area just put Dorian on edge enough that he was anxious. The Templars patrolled frequently he noticed, and he’d seen them watching him more than once on his trips to and from the subway, and he pondered just how many other mages could be in the area. He wasn’t outside here enough to really look for fellow mages and he’d never actually speak to anyone if he could prevent it, not exactly wanting to know what would happen if someone he spoke to recognized his Tevinter accent and wasn’t exactly a supporter of his home nation.

In his apartment building, Dorian took the steps two at a time. He always felt like there were eyes on his back whenever he was outside of his apartment door. The entire way up the four flights of steps he kept quietly muttering to himself, _“Lock the door, lock the door, lock the door.”_ His hands always shook just a bit from his nerves and when he finally inserted his key and got the door open he practically jumped inside and threw it shut behind him, flicking the switch on the knob, turning the dead bolt and placing the lock chain in place. He sighed and slumped just a bit and suddenly felt like falling over and weeping, exhaustion running through him just from simply being on edge. He hated that he didn’t feel safe here. He’d never faced the burden of this kind of insecurity before. How did people suffer through this feeling for years at a time?

He hated to change out of Vivienne’s lovely clothing, wanted to keep wearing it and feel like his old self but he shuddered to think of the wrinkles sleeping in it would cause and knew he couldn’t afford any sort of dry cleaning. He stripped from his cloths to his boxer-briefs and folded them neatly, setting them in one of his boxes before slipping under the satin sheets on his mattress and laid awake.

This was another burden he wasn’t ready for, the long sleepless nights spent worrying or trying to plan for what he’d do tomorrow and the next day and the next week and the next month. His laid back days of knowing what was to come were gone and he was certain there was no way to prepare for this. If he’d had the funds he’d have drunk himself into passing out by now, but he’d sooner go through his ruined betrothal than end up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning from some cheap, worthless wine.  The wine would bring him just a bit more shame.

At the very least he wasn’t dozing off to a grumbling stomach and he knew he had to take the little bits of good with the bad. Lying in bed hungry these past weeks made him internally scoff at the southern collective belief that slavery, still a most common practice in Tevinter despite numerous foreign attempts to squash it, was much worse than this. At the very least, the slaves in Tevinter got to eat. Slavery hadn’t been abolished but rules and regulations were far stricter and slaves were treated quite well. Slaves were able to support themselves, could even support a family. They worked, they were taken care of; in his head it seemed to be a win-win. Of course, he hadn’t been exposed to the southerner’s beliefs before and lived in naivety his entire life. But living as he had so far the past month, was slavery so much worse than this seemingly inescapable poverty? Tomorrow night, his family’s slaves would go to bed after having a meal. He didn’t know if he’d be doing the same.

It just all seemed so backwards. He’d hoped leaving Tevinter would propel him forward but he felt like he was running up a downstairs escalator and was losing ground with each step.

With a weary sigh Dorian reached for the plug to his phone charger and plugged it in. Before drifting into a fitful sleep he remembered to text Vivienne.

_Made it home just fine. Saw a lady with the most appalling blouse, I swear. I’ll need to throw around some of our fashion sense here. Thank you for the lovely evening. Truly._

\-----------------

He could take comfort in the mildly mundane morning routine he’d fallen into.

He wasn’t able to sleep late into the morning here as he did back home. The city sounds woke him just after six which usually left him in a grumbling fit and after a few weeks of this his body was already betraying him and choosing to wake _naturally_ at this time. Just another thing to hate about this city, he supposed.

Each morning Dorian would stumble into the bathroom, shower and shave and recently he noticed his hair gel supply dwindling which was such a minor thing but he felt a ridiculous bit of stress over this, knowing he couldn’t possibly afford to get more of this brand, or possibly to get any more period. This morning after fixing his hair just as he liked it he screwed the cap on the jar of gel and just held it for a moment, staring at the confounding thing for far too long and feeling overwhelming emotions that he shouldn’t feel over a beauty product. With a heavy sigh he set the jar back down and went to put clothes on. He hated how much colder it was in the south. His anatomy was designed for hot, humid weather, weather he actually enjoyed, but down here it was dry and cool most days, a bit breezy as well and it made his skin dry and cracked which he hated nearly more than anything. He had some moisturizer he’d brought with him and he was trying his best to make it last but the jar would be empty soon, just like his hair gel. He hated to think it but the question came to mind regardless: when they were gone, what then?

After a peek out the window (thankfully the nudists weren’t awake yet) and checking the weather on his phone, he was delighted to find that today would be much warmer than it had been as summer started to make its way in and he shuffled through his clothing. It was stuffy inside his apartment and he hadn’t been able to crack any of the windows open (he tried several times by hand and the one time he tried magic the framework creaked in such a way that Dorian was terrified to try again unless he wanted shattered windows). The warmer weather paired with his withering willpower had him fishing out a pair of long casual shorts and a fitted green v-neck t-shirt, both items looking plainer than anything he’d normally wear but unnecessarily expensive all the same. Just as he did every morning after dressing he grabbed his phone, already beginning to chant quietly to himself, _“lock the door, lock the door, lock the door,”_ and stuffed his laptop in its case and slung it over his shoulder. He had a single pair of sunglasses that cost about half of his monthly rent and he put them on before slipping his feet into a pair of sandals and leaving his apartment, door locked behind him.

The walk to the subway and the actual train ride were usually uneventful and nothing to note and each morning when he made it downtown he felt he could breathe easier and there was a little pep put back into his walk. Being around the beautiful skyscrapers and fine dressed crowd made him feel better, like he was finally back to where he belonged. This could be his short term goal, he knew. If he could move into an apartment here, he’d be much better off.

The café he went to each morning was a small place on one of the street corners, easily open for morning commuters. He found that if he got in before eight there weren’t too many people yet (he’d gotten in at eight-thirty once and endured a ten minute wait in line) and many of the tables were free. He had fun here in the mornings, able to now identify each of the serving girls by name and they all knew him as well. He loved freely flirting with them all, playing up his charm and feeling much more like himself, feeling, crazily enough, in control because he knew what he was doing and enjoyed it.

All was just the same this morning when he walked in, spotted that his usual table was open and he walked up to the counter. “Let’s make it a mocha latte, this morning my dear, a double shot if you would.” The young elf behind the counter was arranging her stock of pastries and how badly Dorian wanted one but he’d had to reduce his spending to one pastry every other day and he’d enjoyed a blueberry muffin just yesterday morning.

“Give me just a moment, Dorian,” she spoke and he nodded to her. He truly enjoyed this place for its delightful coffee but it was also a lot pricier than if he got it from one of the corner shops near his apartment. Still, he knew he had to have some sort of indulgence to keep himself sane. He just wondered how much longer he could afford this indulgence. When he pulled his wallet from his pocket and opened it, he realized not much longer. His stomach suddenly felt like it bottomed out and his heart thudded a few times harder in his chest.

“You said a double shot, right hun?”

Dorian licked his too dry lips. “You know, I’m actually feeling like some tea, today. Tea is nicer on warmer days, I always thought. Bit lighter than coffee.” A somewhat reasonable excuse, at the very least. “Green tea with a touch of cream and honey would be perfect.” Tea was fine, it was cheaper. He could reaffirm his love for his darker skin tone as it not only gave him a gorgeous complexion but also perfectly hid the embarrassed blush that he felt creep over his cheeks and heat the tips of his ears. This was a true first, he’d never in his life been unable to afford anything, and here he was standing in a café without enough money to purchase a simple latte. He just barely had enough for the tea. And at this point he wasn’t sure enough to use any of his credit cards or his bank card and end up in more trouble than he was already sinking into. Sure, it was just a cup of coffee but he couldn’t get into the habit of relying on the cards for future purchases.

_“Kaffas,”_ he hissed under his breath before realizing his mistake and sighing. He shoved his wallet back into his pocket and turned to slink off to his table only to be met with the impressively huge wall of muscle that was the Qunari he was becoming so familiar with. He’d almost run straight into the man, catching himself short and nearly falling back until a hand on his bicep steadied him. Maker, was that hand huge, able to wrap all the way around his arm and then overlap.

“Easy there, ‘Vint,” he spoke and Dorian swallowed because that voice was just so deep and low and made his spine feel like it was melting. He couldn’t find his voice and just stared for a moment, looking at the Qunari in his worn down work jeans, familiar tank top, and heavy boots. All signs pointing towards manual labor, as though the muscles didn’t already. Then again, were there Qunari who _didn’t_ have muscle?

“My apologizes,” Dorian muttered and if his face was hot before it was positively boiling now. He shuffled hurriedly to his table, setting his laptop case down and just sat there for a moment, feeling overwhelmed all of a sudden. After a few steadying breaths he worked his trembling fingers to unzip the case and he pulled out his notebook. He’d have to go over his finances yet again. All those years at school for business management and he’d been unable to keep track of whether he could afford a cup of coffee. No wonder no one would hire him.

When the Qunari walked by with his trays loaded with all those cups (who exactly were they for, he wondered) the man looked straight at him and offered a sideways smirk and a wink. An actual _wink_. He only had a single eye, could that even be considered a wink?

This was it, Dorian believed, his sanity was slipping. Surely, if he was worrying over a one-eyed man and the possibility if he could wink or not. He needed something, some kind of turn around because now he was starting to lose a whole new sense of hope within himself.

“Here ya are, Dorian. No worries over the cost, it’s been covered.” The elven girl set a cup before Dorian and he looked down at it puzzled. No cost? Had she noticed the lack of money in his wallet? She couldn’t have, her back was turned…

Dorian brought the cup to his lips, let the hot liquid splash over his tongue and was beyond surprised when it wasn’t green tea that hit his tongue, but the bitter taste of an unsweetened latte. “Is this...?” he asked while looking towards the barista and she smiled at him when she was back behind the counter.

“Double shot. Seems you’ve made a friend. A big, grey friend.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa! I was not expecting the response I got and man is it amazing! Ya'll have really made me happy with all the comments and whatnot and that always is the best encouragement for me to write more. I got this part done in a day and the next part is already in the works. Seriously everyone, thanks so much for showing interest and support! In my head, this story is already getting far deeper than I anticipated and I'm loving it :)


	3. What's in a Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy and happy reading!

His anxiety had been building and building until it got to the point he’s at now. Two months he’s been in Val Royeaux now and it’d been just about a week since his last attempt and failure at securing a job. The last phone conversation he had was a bit awkward after finally speaking his name, though that still wasn’t as bad as the last interview when the woman he spoke to had looked him straight in the face, speaking calmly with a sardonic smile, _“Our company has restrictions against employing manipulative blood mages.”_ He’d somehow kept his mouth shut and walked out with his chin pointed up, but the moment he was out of the building he’d ducked into a nearby alley to hastily wipe at his watering eyes.

This just wasn’t the plan he had in mind when coming to this city. He’d imagined that his name wouldn’t be as well-known as it was in Tevinter; he had believed he’d have a better chance at success here. Because in a different country, he’d be less likely to be overshadowed by his father and his own powerful company and if he weren’t in a place his father could so easily hunt him down, the better. But he scoffed at himself because there wasn’t a place in all of Thedas his father couldn’t find him. The only explanation as to why he hadn’t already been found and dragged back home was that his father didn’t actually want him back home. Easy enough, wasn’t it? With no more troubling son, Magister Pavus could focus on his work without any fear of scandal. Why would he want Dorian found to disrupt that peace?

Maker, did thinking that hurt.

If he didn’t have so much pride, Dorian may have considered harassing his father for support or making dubious threats to cause some sort of damaging uprising to get funds transferred to his account to keep Dorian quiet. He could do that, it _was_ a possibility. But he wouldn’t, he absolutely wouldn’t not only because it went against everything Dorian stood for and worked for, but it would also put some backing into everyone’s beliefs of his manipulation. He wasn’t manipulative, he reminded himself, the media just painted that awful picture of him after the accusations…

Still, he needed a plan. He needed _something._ He was starting to think coming to Val Royeaux was the worst choice he could’ve made. But he had believed that he’d be lesser known in the biggest city in Thedas and he’d believed that there would be more opportunity here. But clearly he was wrong, about this, about so much. He should have made his way to Fereldan or the Free Marches, should have known he’d have better chances in some dank little city out there rather than in Orlais. But what did that matter now? He was officially stuck here, according to his bank account.

The numbers on the screen of his phone were finally in the red. Just seeing it made him sick to his stomach.

The problem was that he had no back-up plan. If he had less pride he would have certainly looked to see if he qualified for government aid but he wasn’t willing to take that kind of opportunity away from someone who truly needed it, someone with a family. And there was absolutely no way in hell he’d write to his parents, ask mommy and daddy for some help or even a ride home. He couldn’t let them know of the mess he’d fallen into and be asked to be rescued. He had too much pride for that. And he was unwilling to sit under his father’s disappointed look. He’d already done that too many times.

Dorian’s shoulders shook with barely controlled sobs and his chair wobbled on its uneven legs as he rocked to and fro, his nerves not allowing him to sit still. How he’d love to pass out under the haze of good, strong wine right now. He’d love even more to go sit at the café and enjoy some coffee and read the news on his laptop. But he couldn’t even do and enjoy that anymore. He hadn’t been there in over a week now. He hadn’t left his apartment in days.

\-------------

Vivienne had insisted they meet up for breakfast.

He’d protested at first, (“Viv, I’ve no money to spare, I can’t expect you to treat me every time,”) but Vivienne had a magical way with words or rather, a very firm stance once her mind was made up. He was quick to give in anyhow, what with his empty stomach grumbling hungrily at him and the stale air of his apartment starting to get to his head. There was a limit to the amount of Solitaire and Minesweeper games one could take and he’d mastered Wicked Grace well enough that the computers could no longer claim victory over him. If he’d had actual furniture he’d have certainly rearranged that multiple times in the past few weeks but he’d settled for moving his mattress around his room every few days and changing where the forks, knives, and spoons were kept just to keep things fresh.

It was nice to finally get out and he was truly excited to get to the café as it’d been quite a long time since he’d last ventured there, but there was an arrogant fear as well from being unable to properly fix himself up to be presentable to society. He’d run out of hair gel and his black locks were arranged in a tousled, limp mess across his crown. He supposed the natural look was well enough and he still looked dashing but hardly how he’d have preferred. People liked that these days though, didn’t they? That look that suggests you just rolled out of bed? Regardless, he had no way of covering the bags under his eyes or to hide the slightly gaunt appearance of his cheeks, or the way his shirt (the smallest he had, one that normally hugged his sculpted build) was looser and the collar hung low and exposed more of his shoulders than it should. After doing the best he could and looking at himself in the mirror, he’d been left with a jolt of shock at just how different he looked, at just how much he couldn’t recognize himself. It was like a flashback all of a sudden and he was seventeen again, standing in front of the mirror during the height of the scandal and hating himself so very much.

This was all just another mistake, he reminded himself, and like the ones before it would change somehow and things would get different. For better or worse.

When he left the train and stepped onto the street downtown, Dorian kept his head turned down and walked quickly, not wanting to catch anyone’s attention. He felt just as he did all those years ago; shameful and foolish. The only difference here was the distinct lack of reporters constantly harassing him. He’d take this invisibility over constant negative limelight any day.

There was a spark that blossomed in his chest, one of familiarity and welcoming, upon entering the café. The young elven barista glanced upon him and her smile was, and it brought about genuine delight inside him, joyous. “Dorian! I was starting think you didn’t like us.”

He wasn’t able to ignore the odd flicker in her eyes and he knew she was worried by his sudden less-than-impressive appearance. He felt his face heat up but he smiled through it regardless. “Now, how could I dislike such a graceful lady as yourself, Amelia,” he spoke and every word was honest though he played it off to sound teasing. “Things have just gotten busy for me lately, my dear. I managed to find a bit of time to come in to meet with a friend.”

“Friend, eh? Speaking of friends, your Qunari friend was asking if you’ve been around.”

What a curious thing, he thought. Just remembering the giant oxman with his tight tank tops and rolling muscles seemed to light a fire in Dorian’s gut and he swallowed the saliva suddenly pooling in his mouth. “Did he now? Odd, we haven’t actually really been acquainted. We haven’t really talked at all, honestly.”

“Oh. Well he hasn’t come in yet, should be on his way soon. Can I get you something while you wait for your friend?”

Minutes later Dorian was sitting at his usual table, a hot cup of Orlesian roast coffee resting between his hands and his phone sitting on the table before him.

_I’ll be a few minutes late, dear. Received a call from a client I couldn’t let go._

Dorian wanted to think that what Vivienne just texted him was true enough but he knew she had a bit of a habit of being late. He’d have enjoyed being late if it meant he had the proper items he needed to get ready but he had no means to ‘prettying himself up’ besides a hot shower. There was another poke of shame within himself and he knew he’d have to answer to Vivienne when she finally saw him.

He didn’t exactly know what he was going to say when she finally started asking him all the questions she’d undoubtedly have. A very large part of him wanted nothing more than confess the truth, so much of it, but he hated how weak he’d appear and how torn apart he was and how she’d likely chastise him for keeping everything to himself not only these past few months but for all these years as well. All of his troubles were his burden to carry and he wouldn’t impose them on another. But he could ask for help. He could ask for just a little bit of assistance, it wouldn’t be hard, and Vivienne would be there to give him anything he needed.

It just went against his entire mission of independence. He didn’t want to be the spoiled boy being waited on, the brat who couldn’t do a single thing for himself. He’d grown up hearing the insults and receiving the haughty sneers of being who believed themselves better than him because they were proven more capable.

He wanted to be capable as well, not sheltered and needing one of the slaves to prepare him his dinner because he couldn’t cook it himself.

Without thought, Dorian set his phone down and let out a very long sigh.

“That sigh was pretty despondent.”

The voice caused a shock to run through him, his spine suddenly straightening and his head jerked up so quickly he felt the muscles tense and pull painfully. The chair across from his own scraped across the floor as it was pulled out and suddenly occupied. He couldn’t stop the sudden loud _thump thump thump_ of his heartbeat in his ears and he openly stared for a moment before berating himself and looking down just a bit.

“Now, I’d ask if there’s something troubling ya but it seems a little obvious at this point.”

Dorian picked up his coffee, taking a sip and realized his mistake too late as the very hot liquid splashed over his tongue and burned it. His face scrunched and an odd sensation stormed through his chest when that voice chuckled a bit, low and rough. He wiped at his mouth carelessly with his thumb and looked up, glaring.

“Why are you sitting here talking to me?” His words were far harsher than he meant but he wasn’t fond of being laughed at. Dorian continued to glare at the Qunari who had decided to seat himself at his table, and the overly large beast of a man just looked back, looking very amused.

“What can I say, I missed ya.”

“We don’t even know each other, how can you miss me?”

The Qunari was smiling and he shook his head, those very large horns swaying with the movements.  Dorian had the overwhelming urge to reach up and grab onto them and never let go. He felt his face heat all over again and yet again blessed his dark skin.

“Come on, maybe we haven’t talked but it’s obvious, ain’t it?” Dorian shook his head because, no, it most certainly wasn’t obvious. Then the Qunari leaned forward, looking like he was going to reveal some huge secret. He whispered, “We’ve got chemistry.”

At this, Dorian scoffed while the Qunari laughed loudly. Yet he actually had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the smile from spreading to his lips and he glared at the man who looked all too pleased with himself.

“I’ve talked to you a whole two minutes at most and already I find you insufferable. Why are you really sitting at my table?”

The Qunari leaned back in his chair, legs spreading a bit in a casual pose, one arm slung over the back. Dorian felt his throat go dry just a bit, eyes unable to stop roaming over the muscles of those thick arms and fall on the expanse of chest that the dark blue tank top did nothing to conceal. He was caught however, that single eye looking right at him and an infuriatingly smug smirk stretched across the Qunari’s face. Dorian wanted so badly to flip the man off but he refrained and cautiously took another sip of his coffee, trying very hard not to stare at all. “You still haven’t answered my question,” he said eventually.

“And my answer is right there,” the Qunari spoke and pointed to the front door. Dorian glanced behind him, seeing a young man walk through the door and quickly turn his eyes to them. He looked a bit like he’d just rolled out of bed, under-cut hair a bit ruffled and his slightly too-large t-shirt was terribly wrinkled. But when he approached them he was smiling, practically glowing.

“’ey, Chief,” he greeted and immediately Dorian picked up the Tevinter accent and felt a twist in his stomach.

“Krem!” the Qunari practically cheered. He took one of the cups from his selection of many that he’d set on the table and passed it to the other man. “I take it your night went just as planned.” The Qunari winked and Dorian felt pressed to say something about how that probably didn’t classify as a wink.

The man stood by their table, taking a drink from his cup before saying, “’course it did. Did you expect anything else?”

The Qunari laughed and shook his head. “She anything special?”

The man shrugged. “No more than usual.”

“Hmm. Were her tits nice at least?”

The man rolled his eyes, looking like that question was one he’d heard before and was simply tired of hearing again. “Horny bastard, get your rocks off somewhere else.” He took another pull from his cup before his eyes locked onto Dorian’s. “I see you’re making friends, as usual.” He regarded Dorian with an almost suspicious look that Dorian wasn’t exactly sure how to return. He glanced briefly to his phone, hoping Viv would get there soon enough to drive these two away because at the moment he wasn’t entirely sure what he was to do with them. He’d also like some breakfast and refused to order anything without her. He felt the rumbling in his very empty stomach and hoped the other two would leave soon.

“Name’s Krem,” was suddenly said and Dorian blinked after finding a hand practically shoved in front of his face. He was taken aback suddenly but got his wits together and took up the offered hand in a shake that was much less firm than he was taught to do. He cleared his throat and simply said, “Dorian.”

The thing of it was that he’d gotten so used to negative reactions towards his name through all the interviews he’d gone through lately, that Dorian nearly missed the odd tensing of Krem’s hand in his and the slight widening of his eyes. Of course he’d know who Dorian was if he’d lived in Tevinter, which he had to have given his accent. Worried, he glanced to the Qunari but saw no indication that his name was anything familiar to the man. Perhaps there was a chance he really had no idea who he was. Dorian wasn’t exactly a popular name so there was very little chance of mistaking who that particular name referred to.

“Well, ah, Dorian. Nice to meet you.” Krem let go of Dorian’s hand and looked to the Qunari. “This isn’t the ‘Vint you told me about, is it?”

Just from those words Dorian felt a chill seep over his body and he whipped his head about to full on stare at the Qunari, eyes wide. “You’ve _talked_ about me? You don’t even know who I am!”

“Hey, hey now,” the Qunari spoke calmly and that awful yet attractive smirk returned once again. “I told ya we’ve got chemistry, did I not? That’s worth sharing with someone.”

At that, Dorian huffed, wondering just what in the world could have been said about him. He panicked, momentarily, because he knew that this Qunari knew or at least had an idea that he didn’t exactly have a lot of money. He didn’t mention that, did he? Maker, did he hope not. He hated the embarrassed feeling he got when thinking of the fact that he was actually poor and couldn’t afford basic things and he’d prefer to keep that unsavory bit of knowledge to himself.

“Anyways, Dorian,” and the way the Qunari said his name, exaggerated a bit to show he knew full and well what it was, “We’ve got a job to get to and it’d be rude of us to keep taking up your time.” The Qunari stood and reached for the to-go trays of all those coffee cups, handing a few off to Krem. “I’ll see you around, so long as you don’t go disappearing again.”

It seemed as though words were stuck in Dorian’s throat after the Qunari said that and he wasn’t able to say any of them. He deliberately stared down at his phone, hating how he had lost some of the confidence he’d prided himself on having for so many years. His hand clenched into a fist when he heard the first footsteps indicating they were walking away. He hated how being out here in the city made him lose so many things and he wanted desperately to hold onto something, something that was him. He’d always been courageous. He couldn’t lose that.

Dorian spun around in his chair. “Thank you,” he said quickly, the words rushed but still articulate. The Qunari and Krem both stopped and looked at him. “A few weeks back,” he clarified, “you bought me that latte. I never thanked you so…thanks, for that.” His cheeks were set ablaze but he refused to back down from his words and stared right at the Qunari, hoping his expression was enough to convey how genuine he was. There was a flutter in his chest when the Qunari smiled at him, a true small smile and not a smirk.

“Sure. It’s good to take care of people when they need, even if you don’t know them.” As he said those words he ruffled Krem’s hair and Dorian was certain there was affection in the gesture, despite Krem’s scowl and him knocking the Qunari’s hand away. “Take care, Dorian.”

Dorian watched them leave and hop into the truck parked across the street, waiting until they’d driven off and were gone before finally turning back around in his seat. He reached for his phone but noticed something on the table and grabbed the small slip of paper. He frowned at the numbers on the receipt, realizing the Qunari must have left it behind and he sighed at the man’s carelessness. But just as he was about to crumple the paper to be tossed away, something on the opposite side caught his eye.

_Iron Bull._

_Must be that Qunari’s actual name_ , he thought to himself. Yet even more trying was the string of numbers below the name.

A phone number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey ya'll, sorry this took a bit. This past week has been a bit rough, and I've been stressing over things and working to get myself back to a good place. I suffer from anxiety and depression and sometimes I get triggers that throw me off for a few days and I'm pretty much a solitary clam whenever that happens.
> 
> Regardless of all that, I really hoped ya'll enjoyed the chapter and hopefully I'll get the next chapter to have a bit more depth :/


	4. On the bright side...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When things start to look up...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy and happy reading!

Vivienne was twenty minutes late. Dorian thought he should applaud her on being so early.

Her delayed arrival had forced him to sit there at the table, coffee untouched while he contemplated the deliberately “forgotten” slip of paper that was now crumpled in his loose fist. His initial instinct was to get up, tossing the paper and the number on it in the trash. Yet each time his legs twitched with the intention of getting up he never actually moved, never did what he kept telling himself to do.

He knew the number would go to waste. Despite the fact that the Qunari, that Iron Bull’s, clearly exhibited interest was flattering and playing very well to stroking Dorian’s ego, everything in him screamed to abandon any thought of possibly hooking up with the man. He couldn’t allow himself any opportunity to get into any sort of mess with another person, not again, and he had far more pressing matters to attend to.

Still, a carefree night of fun did sound utterly appealing, if only to provide him with a temporary escape from the nightmare he’d gotten himself into.

He was still fiddling with the receipt when Vivienne arrived, sitting herself easily into the seat across from him where Iron Bull had been just before. With an announcing breath she set her leather clutch on the table, mouth opening to say something just as she looked up, eyes looking upon Dorian and her entire face morphed suddenly, looking almost mortified.

“Dorian, darling! What in the world?”

Her outburst startled him but he somehow didn’t jump, just ducked his head and looked up at her like a toddler about to be scolded. “Good morning, Viv,” he said and attempted a reassuring smile that he knew would never work on her. He managed to meet her eyes, feeling rather pitiful and near shameful and her look was startled at best. “How are you?” He played innocent but knew there was nothing that would throw her off.

Vivienne didn’t hesitate, turning in her seat and calling to the barista, “Amelia! Would you have Theo make us a full breakfast plate? Right away, dear, if you don’t mind.” Without waiting for a reply she turned back, eyes staring Dorian down. She calmly laced her hands and set them in front of her, asking evenly, “What is the exact matter here, dear?”

Dorian chewed his tongue, having sunk in his seat a bit. The shame and embarrassment were coming up to throttle him and he’d much prefer to sink below the table and curl into a ball. His fingers moved over the receipt still clutched in his fist as he spoke, “I’m alright, Vivienne. It’s just that without a job I’m not able to afford some of the things I need. It’s manageable.” A complete lie and he knew that she could see right through it. Several years ago he may have made this entire ordeal far more dramatic, but he’d grown so much since his younger years and learned when it was time for theatrics and when it was time to be humble.

“Dorian,” Vivienne said and her voice relayed her seriousness. “You’re perishing right before my eyes. It’s only been a few weeks since I’d last seen you and your condition has deteriorated so quickly. I’d noticed you’d lost weight since you got here. You’ve been eating, yes?”

The occasional bowl of cheap cereal, ramen, or eggs, yes. “Of course,” he said instantly and even though it wasn’t a lie, the scarcity of his meals made it feel like he was being completely dishonest. He was hungry and at first, the irregularity of meals didn’t sit well with his body but he’d slowly become used to it over the months spent in the city, able to cope with the pained, empty gnawing in his stomach. He was learning to not sit up too quickly when sitting or lying down to combat the light headedness and he’d stopped fighting against the need for long naps in the afternoon. It wasn’t perfect but it was manageable.

Despite his words, Vivienne wasn’t at all convinced and Dorian didn’t expect her to be. He sighed and dropped his attempt to smile. “I’m a bit short on money, it’s alright. I’ll find a job soon and all will be well.” He had very little hope of this actually happening anytime soon, however, but he didn’t want to completely let go of any sense of hope. It was upsetting, yet his hope was the only thing he could cling to these days. He hadn’t heard back from any place he’d applied to in over a week, his phone and email both disconcertingly quiet.

“I just don’t understand,” Vivienne went on and Dorian felt very exposed under her eyes, eyes that were roaming over his body. He was very clearly skinnier than when he first arrived, his clothes much looser and his muscle mass having shrunk. Just the other morning as Dorian was changing his shirt he nearly broke down when his knuckles brushed against his ribcage and he could feel each and every bone. So used to eating like a prince for his entire life, the effects of being unable to afford a full pantry of food were difficult to deal with. His self-confidence with his appearance was certainly not as strong as it usually was and recently he’d taken to avoiding any reflective surfaces. “My dear, you’re wasting away.”

“Just finally losing all that baby fat, you know how it likes to cling forever.” He joked yet his voice still wavered faintly. He refused to break down out in public and in front of Vivienne.

The woman clucked her tongue then reached out, taking his hands within hers. “I never imagined you’d be so hard pressed for money. When you took that awful apartment I figured you might just be playing in all honesty, living there just to maybe _feel_ like you’re working your way up from the bottom. You’ve your inheritance, Dorian, you’ve got millions of dollars at your disposal. You aren’t doing this for the theatrics of it all, are you? You were always quite dramatic.”

A small laugh bubbled in his throat and flew from his lips, a sardonic laugh that was difficult to cover. Vivienne’s glare was invasive, like she could see right into his mind. He couldn’t keep acting like a wounded mongrel even though he knew there would be no convincing Vivienne to leave him be and take all of his fibs at face value. All of these lies were leaving an awful taste in his mouth and he added another to the list, speaking, “I never planned on using my inheritance when I came here and I’d rather stick to that. It’s for emergencies only.” That was the biggest lie thus far; his father had transferred all but a meager few hundred (which he’d already spent) out of the millions he’d had in his bank account just one day after he fled from Tevinter.

Vivienne sat up in her chair, mouth opening to keep up her interrogation when they were interrupted by Amelia bringing their breakfast. Dorian’s mouth watered instantly at the large plate set before him, loaded with eggs, potatoes, toast, bacon, and sausage. The smell incited mild nausea in him at first from his body not being used to so much food, making him a bit fearful he wouldn’t be able to enjoy anything on his plate, but it passed just moments later after he took a sip from his coffee. After folding his napkin and placing it in his lap, Dorian picked up one of the toast slices and slathered it with a bit of the jam that came with his meal. “Enough on me,” he said and those words alone were odd, given that he was one of his favorite topics. Viv raised an eyebrow at him and her look made it clear they were not done talking about his situation. “How’s business been? How’s the new collection coming along?”

Vivienne cut into her egg white omelet- her usual, whenever she ate there-, eyes pointed on her plate as she said in a stiff voice, “It’s coming just fine. I was hoping you’d come around to model some of the pieces, but it seems I’d need to do some tailoring if they were to fit you.” Her obvious shade didn’t pass by Dorian and he gave her a blank stare as he chewed his toast. “Perhaps with a few more of these breakfasts in you, you’ll be ready enough to model for me. Otherwise, the business is another reason I asked you to join me this morning.” She let him think on her words for a few minutes as she went about enjoying her breakfast and Dorian watched her as she ate, waiting for an elaboration. If he wasn’t so curious he’d be fine just eating in silence (and was this breakfast tasty as can be, his belly was very happy for once) yet when it became obvious Viv wouldn’t explain without being prompted he asked, “What does your business and our meeting have to do with each other?”

Vivienne didn’t answer right away, focusing deliberately on her breakfast and Dorian wished to roll his eyes but he’d never dare in front of her. This was her form of punishment to him for having skirted so clearly around explaining his problems to her. He’d take it, however, if it meant keeping a few of his secrets to himself. Minutes passed when she finally answered his question. “My assistant is taking leave for the next month to help her husband after a surgery he’s having. I dread having to deal with someone I don’t know and can’t possibly trust, Maker forbid an _intern_. It’s only temporary, the position, and I’d prefer having someone relatively familiar with business dealings and who I know personally. I also figured, if you weren’t employed just yet, that I could use this as an opportunity to lend you a hand since you won’t accept any other sort of help.” Her look was accusatory. “It’s only temporary and nothing terribly thrilling, phone calls and appointment making and such. I’ll pay you very decently however and put in any and every good word I can with any prospective employers.”

Chewing thoughtfully on a bite of his omelet, Dorian acted as though he were considering the offer though he knew at this point he couldn’t refuse it. He’d done simple things for Vivienne in her office since he was a teenager and he knew his way around her business with some proficiency. The position was temporary but this could be a way to bring himself back up from the dark pit he’d fallen into. It wasn’t a solution and wouldn’t bring him great fortune or significant life changes, but it was something good and he couldn’t toss that away so easily.

“I suppose I could, if only to help you out. What kind of pseudo-nephew would I be if I didn’t lend you my assistance?” He wondered for a moment if the bright, cheerful feeling that practically exploded through his chest was from the absolute relief that he may be able to redeem himself a bit with this temporary job or from the eggs that were exceedingly delicious and making him feel like all his lost weight was returning in the form of a chiseled muscle.

“Splendid,” Vivienne replied and she sounded genuinely relieved. “She’s starting her leave next week. I’ll have you come in the day before and work with her so she can show you everything you need to know.”

“Sounds thrilling,” Dorian said and he smiled as he said it.

“Surely it will be, darling. Now, what’s that scrap you’ve been playing with all along? It’s awfully distracting.”

Dorian froze for a moment after her words. His left hand had been on the table the entire time, the Iron Bull’s forgotten paper scrap being rolled about it in fingers mindlessly the entire time. He felt his face heat and scolded himself for not having tossed the darn thing earlier. “Just an old receipt I found in my pocket, is all,” he said quickly and stuffed the paper into his pocket.

\---------------

Just for the sake of feeling good, he fancied himself up.

Dorian didn’t have any plans on going anywhere yet he had the means to fix up his appearance and he took advantage of the opportunity, if only to help him feel more like himself again.

After their breakfast, Vivienne fixed Dorian with a look meaning they would discuss things another time and as she pulled him into a hug he felt her hand dip into his back pocket, to the public looking far more risqué than Vivienne would ever get under watching eyes, but Dorian knew full and well it was sexually innocent (this was his pseudo-aunt, after all) and he hadn’t the opportunity to question her move before she was running out, claiming she had meetings and that she’d call him soon.

Of course when he reached into his back pocket he found a few paper bills that were enough to support him for at least a week, two even if he used it wisely. With a mixture of gratitude and exasperation, he’d gone off to the store, buying himself a few groceries and the indulgent beauty products he’d been missing. After a nice and long hot shower he shaved, unable to help himself from touching his smooth cheeks every now and again, partly because he liked the feel of his smooth skin but also because a large part of him couldn’t believe just sunken in they felt. He didn’t feel disgust by his appearance, more shock and displacement as though he’d been forcefully stripped from his old, healthier body and forced into this one. That would change, he reminded himself, a bit of work with Viv would allow him some cash flow, however short the timeframe would be, and this could very well kick start his dwindled motivation and get him back into job hunting with the same fervor he’d lost over the past few weeks.

With that, he gelled his hair into their perfected spikes, covered the shadows under his eyes with concealer and lined his eyes lightly with liner, then brushed his teeth and smoothed a layer of chapstick over his lips. This was good, he thought as he looked in the mirror. This was a bit of the old Dorian he knew, the real Dorian who was determined to appear optimistic and in control. Maker, how he missed _feeling_ like he was in control.

See, he thought to himself, things change, for better or worse. It was just a stroke of luck that things were looking better for him.

Riding the good mood. Dorian found himself humming as he moved about the apartment, eventually playing some music on his phone as he decided to do a bit of cleaning. He had a fairly rounded interest in various music genres and when in a mood such as he was, he enjoyed something that seemed to thrum deep in his bones, something that got his heart pumping a bit more, something that made him want to get up and move, do something. He’d usually listen to either pop music (a thing that didn’t happen terribly often, the computer generated music often making him reminiscent for good old acoustics) or rock. Today he settled for rock, leaving him feeling energized like he was back in high school where he’d often listen to hard rock as a form of rebellion from his classical loving parents.

It was as he was cleaning the bathroom that he heard something, faint and off towards the front of the apartment. He paused in scrubbing at the floor tiles, looking up and waiting. A moment later the sound happened again and he recognized it as knocking. He pulled the rubber gloves off, tossing them in the sink and wondering just who could be at his door. There was a small worry within him, knowing well enough this neighborhood wasn’t exactly the cleanest or the safest. Yet, he thought to himself, he was a capable mage and could very easily take care of himself. He kept his left hand behind his back, lighting a small fireball in his palm just in case.

The knocking sounded again and he peered through the peephole in his door, seeing a slightly distorted image of an elven woman who appeared to be rocking back and forth on her feet. Confused, he opened the door halfway, deliberately blocking the way into his apartment with his body. “Yes?” he answered and his tone wasn’t the friendliest but he couldn’t be too careful, even with an innocent looking elf.

“Oh, surly one you, huh?” She frowned and cocked her head to the side. “I was just coming by to ask if you had any sugar.” She held out a cup, an actual drinking cup and not a measuring cup, and Dorian couldn’t help but wonder if this extreme cliché was actually a joke.

“You’re joking, right?” he asked with full honesty because he couldn’t believe people actually did this outside of bad movies and even worse porn openings. He couldn’t help but automatically begin to scrutinize the woman’s appearance, her short blonde hair choppy as though hacked away with kitchen scissors. He flat shoes were worn and a bit tattered, her leggings an offensively bright lime green with a shirt made of blue plaidweave. He also couldn’t help but notice the way she moved, still rocking a bit on her feet and her eyes were skirting over his shoulder, heading moving to the side a bit as though trying to get a peek inside his apartment. He glared and shifted, stepping forward a bit and trying to close the door as much as he could without shutting himself out.

“Are your knickers always so bunched or do you always look like you sucked on a lemon? I’m just asking for some sugar, not any kind of sexual thingy or anything like that.” Her glare pointed to him for a moment before she went back to trying to not too subtly looking into his apartment. “Name’s Sera, by the way. I live upstairs.” She smiled at him as though her sudden mood shift was completely normal.

“Sera,” Dorian said simply. “I’m afraid I don’t have any sugar, I can’t help you.” He started to back away and close his door when it hit something and he looked down, seeing her foot blocking it. He glared at her again, wondering if just maybe he would have to use some of his magic to scare her off.

“You gotta be kidding, yeah? Who doesn’t have any sugar?”

Completely bewildered, Dorian was about to point out that she was the one asking him for sugar because she was presumably out of the stuff, but she went on before he could speak, “Then again you don’t look like you eat much sugar. Or much at all.” Her eyes roamed to his just barely visible apartment again. “You don’t look like you’ve much of anything at all.”

Frustrated, he grit out, “Thank you so kindly for stating the obvious. Now if you’d please leave.”

“Sera!”

Both Sera and Dorian looked up the stairs, seeing a waving drawven woman at the top of the flight. “You aren’t using the sugar excuse to scope out the neighbors again, are you?”

“Shut the frig up, Dagna! I need sugar to make cookies.”

The dwarf laughed. “You don’t even like cookies. Come on, leave the poor guy alone, we’ve got movies to watch!”

“Fine, yeah.” Sera turned back to Dorian, finally moving her foot and stepping back. “Thanks for the not-sugar, pretty boy. See ya around, yeah?” She turned and practically raced up the steps after Dagna and Dorian watched them both go, completely bewildered by the random excursion. He shut the door and locked it, thinking he truly needed to move to a finer part of the city very soon.

\---------------

The next morning when Dorian went to the café, he sat sipping a hot cappuccino while scrolling through the news headlines while also glancing upon the current stocks. The door opened behind him and heavy footsteps went past his table, causing him to glance up and see the broad, muscled back of the Iron Bull. He couldn’t help but watch as Amelia readied his order of all those cups. He wondered, as he looking at that broad body, how easily the Iron Bull could pick him up and hold him against a wall. What would it feel like to have that entire muscle mass pressed against his much smaller body? Those arms were strong, there was no doubt. Would his hands bruise his skin if they held his hips just a tad too hard?

He had to shake himself from the thoughts as the Iron Bull finishing paying and turning around. His whole body felt flush just from his thoughts and he shifted as he grew a bit uncomfortable between his legs. He couldn’t look up or say anything as the Iron Bull walked by, speaking in that rich, low voice, “Mornin’ Dorian,” before he continued on and left. It just made Dorian think about the crumpled receipt that he’d for some reason tucked away safely in his notebook back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EXTREME apologies with how late this is. Things haven't been too great with me between my job entering the busy season (I'm a baker) and having a buttload of doctors appointments and me experiencing a ton of stress in general. Updates may be a bit slower but I'm determined to get things out semi-regularly. 
> 
> A huge thanks to everyone who commented on that last chapter. I know this chapter wasn't at all thrilling and nothing really seemed to happen but the next chapter should be much better (goodness do I hope it's better).
> 
> Also it's almost 1AM where I am and I was more than half asleep when reading this over for mistakes. Please forgive the tons of mistakes I had to have missed >


	5. A Moment to Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which this chapter can't really be coherently summed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a very bizarre dream of Bull being chased by demons through a decimated Chantry that was sprouting red lyrium everywhere, I'm honestly not kidding. He was so panicked and scared it was heartbreaking :'( Bull can't dream and I think I had his nightmare for him.
> 
> Please enjoy and happy reading!

He started reaching for one bottle before he stopped and hesitated. His eyes looked over the selection of choices, knowing which one he’d prefer but knowing he was supposed to be buying smart. A brand was just fancy details and expensive marketing, that was all. But a brand was also of societal symbol of status and he’d grown up having been super conscientious of his status and what that entailed and what it meant. How frustrating that even now, hundreds of miles away and cut off from all communication, did his family hold such a heavy influence over him. He was grocery shopping for Maker’s sake, what did it matter if his cashier noticed he’d bought the generic brand instead of paying just a bit more for something that was covered in flashy graphic designs?

To Dorian, it meant more than it should and he felt ashamed. He was starting to wonder if he could ever get used to living this sort of life.

It was a true effort, he realized, having money and not blowing it all on the fancy things he enjoyed. He could remember the long summers he’d spend with his few friends when school was out and a simple day to them had been blowing a few hundred on clothes, spending the day at the spa, or going out on the family yacht just because they could. Yet here, in the black heart of this forgotten neighborhood he was stranded in his apartment staring at his empty living room and picturing all sorts of beautiful mahogany furniture filling the bleak space.

This lifestyle plagued him most at the store as it did now. He stared at the long rows of salad dressings and his hand dropped to his side. He’d never actually had bottled dressing; the family chef always made a lovely raspberry vinaigrette from scratch and he’d never had anything else. Here there were multiple brands, multiple flavors, all different prices that ranged from cheap big bottles to ridiculously overpriced smaller bottles and, not for the first time since being on his own, he was stumped.

Stumped by salad dressing.

This very issue cast a dark shadow upon him, bringing about every sneer and taunt he’d heard from his younger years. All those classmates who didn’t live his lifestyle hadn’t been so keen to admire him. He’d been ridiculed so many times for his lack of “real world” understanding and his mother had always worked to convince him that the others were just jealous because of his money and power. He was supposed to go on to big and wonderful things, why did he need to know the workings of grocery shopping?

Yet this seemed like one of those tasks he should know how to do and he didn’t. Who was to blame? He’d love to throw it at his parents as he blamed them for so many of the wrongs in his life, but a very small part of him stopped to consider their side. They had anticipated their son to rise above all others, to be the leader of their country. Why would they teach him to do things like cooking and the laundry and grocery shopping?

It was just far easier to blame them for every short coming in his life.

Dorian knew he couldn’t keep standing here staring at every bottle of dressing though. There was a woman who stood to his side for a few moments, a toddler resting on her hip, and she had eyed him a few times, he noticed. He undoubtedly looked odd, standing in front of the salad dressing displayed for well over five minutes now and burning embarrassment boiled in his gut. Quickly he grabbed at one of the bottles he’d been eyeing, thinking the price fit into the tight budget he had set for himself and just hoped it might make the pre-packaged salad he’d decided to try seem more appetizing.

\--------------------

It certainly wasn’t the most ideal work, but running around for Viv proved to be a fantastic distraction at the very least.

There wasn’t truly any glory to be had scheduling appointments, fetching coffee, directing visitors and such but it certainly kept him busy and that was something he could appreciate. It almost reminded him of his apprenticeship during his graduate courses with his mentor Alexius at the man’s business where he worked closely under his supervision, learning the intricate workings of running a company. Surely the tasks he did in each place were staggeringly different but it was the same constant pace that kept his brain actively reviewing things that needed to be done and figuring out which order to complete each task to be most efficient. This was the thrill he loved with the non-stop environment; he felt useful when he was constantly on the go and getting things done.

He staggered home at the end of each work day feeling tired but also the most satisfied he’d felt in ages and it left him with dwindled energy which made it easier for him to fall onto his uncomfortably lumpy mattress and sink into a refreshing sleep between his satin sheets.

This ignited the hope within him.

If he could find work that left him with a worn out body but energized brain he’d feel much better. And as much as he enjoyed working with Vivienne, each and every day as he buttoned up his shirt and expertly tied his tie, he had that far away feeling of dread in his stomach when thinking that this wasn’t permanent and it would end soon unless he hopped back into actively shooting out resumes again. It was just far more satisfying to live, however briefly, in this illusion of good fortune.

Still, it wasn’t such an easy task as far as his finances went and he spent his mornings at the café drawing up daily budgets, even if they barely changed from day to day. He knew he’d have to get into the habit of staying on top of his money spending if he were to always ensure the necessities were paid and so far he figured from what he earned from Vivienne for his month of work, he’d be able to afford his rent for two months after he finished and her other assistant returned.

It wasn’t at all a comforting thought.

He’d mentally slapped his wrist after his shopping trip a few days ago, feeling rather delighted to seeing just a bit more money in his account than he’d originally budgeted and he’d splurged (if it could even really be called splurging) on two bottles of good wine and extra hair gel and even a new pair of boots. After, though, he sat on his bed with the shoe box laid out in front of him and he just stared at it for a good long while, working very hard to justify the purchase when he felt foolish for making it. In the end he chalked it up to undying old habits and tried to put the issue out of his mind.

The budgeting was getting easier as was the shopping but that didn’t stop him from sitting in the café one morning and staring at the excel spreadsheet on his computer, numbers running across his computer screen as he worked to organize how he would make the next few months work. He had just over a week left of working with Vivienne and despite actually making an effort and trying to contact more places for potential opportunities, the job hunt was going just as it had before, leaving him in a panicked standstill.   

“That must be some pretty intense work you’ve got going there for you to have that face.”

Dorian jumped in his seat, eyes tearing away from his laptop screen and he looked up to see the Iron Bull standing beside his table, the usual array of coffee cups in hand. He looked down at Dorian with a face that could easily be mistaken as carefree but held some elements of smugness that impossibly didn’t seem arrogant. Dorian remembered donning a similar look throughout his entire youth though his held far more arrogance.

“Just, you know, drawing up the monthly finances,” he mumbled and he felt so disconnected from himself with his odd manner of speech; he never spoke with anything less than full confidence. This Iron Bull was such an awful influence on him.

“Huh, you don’t seem the type to pay close attention to how much you spend,” Bull commented and Dorian threw him a look and felt slightly offended.

“And what, pray tell, type do I seem to be?”

Bull’s eye roamed over Dorian and he felt a heated blush creep up his neck as that single eye studied him. The look was intense and Dorian felt like he was suddenly under his mother’s scrutinizing look after he being caught sneaking into the house in the middle of the night drunk off his ass. He resisted biting his lip and worked to keep his eyes up and focused.

“Kinda had you pegged for a rich boy, actually. Easily throwing your money around without batting an eye.”

_Not bad_ , Dorian conceded because what Bull spoke of was the old Dorian, the carefree rich kid who had the money to toss away without a care, the one who thought himself above all others, the one who believed he could never be brought down. Until he was. The Dorian he was now was far, far different. And looking at Bull, Dorian wondered whether he should take the man’s words as an insult. But he couldn’t find reason to take offense; Bull had spoken without any sort of scoff or judgmental. He’d simply made a correct observation.

“Perhaps you’re right. You never know, the finances I’m doing could be from my elaborate underground drug ring.  Or, you know, I could be a pimp. Take your pick.” When the Iron Bull laughed genuinely at his words Dorian smiled at him from over his laptop and a pleasant warmth spread through his chest. He wanted to make Bull laugh like that again.

“The day I believe you’re actually a pimp is the day I’m mistaken for a dwarf,” Bulled laughed. “’sides, you’re too pretty for that. You’re more of the type to be stomping the street in some sexy leather boots.”

Dorian looked at Bull and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m just going to ignore the fact that you pretty much said I’d make a proper prostitute. And I feel I’m more of a satin pumps kind of man. My legs are to die for.”

Laughing that deep, sexy laugh again, Bull picked up his trays of cups and did that awkward one-eyed wink to Dorian and walked off with a, “See you tomorrow, Dorian” between lingering chuckles. Dorian stared down at his keyboard to conceal his ceaseless smile.

\--------------

That night he’d practically ripped his boxer briefs off, head buzzing with the sound of Bull’s laughter. He’d fallen onto his mattress after work, the entire day dragging by with his mind constantly thinking of the Qunari and each thought grew more and more sexual, as it started with Bull laughing, then Bull laughing shirtless, then Bull smirking at him while those giant hands gripped his hips and threw him against the closest hard surface and pressed their bodies together.

He felt flush like he had a fever.

The satin sheets made his skin tingle pleasingly and he threw his head back against his pillow as he dragged a hand down his stomach, the other rubbing across his chest so his fingers would occasionally catch on a nipple. It’d been ages since he’d last touched himself, the priority having not been there for quite some time. He’d never had any sort of stimulation that drove him to this need and it had been nice to not need this for a while but now that his hands were wandering and the images in his mind were flashing he remembered why pleasuring himself was so great in the first place.

Dorian loved the way just the first touch to his hardening cock sent his magic into a frenzy as his body grew more and more excited. When he finally reached down and took himself in hand, he was thrust back nearly ten years to when he first discovered his sex drive and, in his excitement and inexperience, accidentally ejected a burst of electrical magic and thoroughly shocked his own dick which was, unsurprisingly, very painful and not at all arousing. He learned to control both his excitement and his magic over the years and found that when he applied just a touch of his magic his hummed through his skin like vibrations that heightened his arousal. A groan left his slightly parted lips when he took himself in hand and give a firm stroke.

Drawing his knees up, Dorian splayed them out and closed his eyes. He could picture it perfectly; the Iron Bull would easily pick him up in his arms, muscles flexing with each movement and he imagined a hard surface to his back, a wall or something of the like, and he could feel the hot, hard flesh of the Bull’s shoulders under his hands. What would he taste like when they kissed, he wondered, and a breathy moan escaped him as his fist twisted slightly over the head of his cock. He wanted all of the Bull’s weight on him, wanted to be smothered. He wanted to be pampered and worshipped but at the same time he wanted to be thrown down and pinned and fucked so hard his legs went numb.

His hips thrust up off the mattress, pre-cum already beading from the slit of his cock. It’d been far too long since he’d touched himself and far longer since he’d allowed another to touch him.

Yet his mind strayed for a moment thinking of the last time he’d really been touched and he refused to go back to that time, to that place, and he worked hard, concentrating on the Bull and his strength and his voice and those hands that could probably lift him like he weighed nothing. Such a huge man, even by Qunari standards, and that made Dorian curious. Everything about him had to be proportional, right? He wanted to taste him, he thought, and wondered how much of the Bull’s cock he could fit down his throat. His jaw practically hurt thinking of it and yet it was satisfying, thinking of how the Bull would react, if he’d make any noise or if he’d watch with silent interest. In Dorian’s mind, Bull definitely made noise, low grunts and forced heavy breaths and Dorian stroked his dick faster, needing to get off, needed this build up to finally be released, needed to feel that orgasmic brand of ecstasy that couldn’t be achieved any other way.

Breath coming out in quick pants he felt the tightening in his stomach, the heat rising, he was close, he needed this…

Naturally this would be when his phone would ring, jarring him so suddenly from his conjured fantasy that he jumped in surprise, heart lurching and forcing a very frustrated groan from him. He wanted very badly to ignore the call but, already disturbed, he doubted he’d be able to so easily get back to where he was. And, seeing who the call was from, he knew she refused to be ignored and would bother him until he answered.

“Hello, Viv,” he answered and sank back onto his bed, looking down to watch his straining erection begin to wither and feeling a sensation of loss and pity. He’d been so close.

_“Dorian, dear, I’m so sorry to disturb you so late but I needed to tell you that I won’t be having you come to the studio in the morning.”_

The strike of panic that shot through him was sudden and harsh and the only thing his mind instantly went to was that this was it, he was done, Vivienne’s assistant was returning early and he was once again without a job. He swallowed his heart back down from his throat and asked, “W-why?”

_“You’re needed elsewhere, dear. I’ve set you up for an interview with an old friend of mine.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. I suck. I was going to include the interview in this chapter but when I thought about it, it seemed that placing it at the beginning of the next chapter will set things up better. So this is more filler because I really had to force this chapter out and it was difficult and annoying. 
> 
> I do sincerely apologize for this taking so very long to post something for y'all. I've been going through medical stuff and stress and just found out I need surgery to reconstruct my foot since I've got a collapsed arch. While that sucks that means I'll be out of work 3-4 months so that's lots of time for me to push out writing! I'm trying to think positive here...
> 
> I'll work my butt off to deliver the next chapter sooner but no promises! and truly and honestly, thanks to everyone who dropped a comment in the last chapter, I get so excited whenever I'm alerted to them, they really make my days better!


	6. When the Past Catches Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What he hoped to run from finds him once more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy and happy reading!

Getting ready to present himself was an art.

There were some forms of art that could easily be crafted with little thought, like when a pianist would just randomly piecing together a few notes to find they made a catchy tune, or when a painter’s brush stroke wasn’t carefully planned and the created pattern looked edgy or the colors mixed well. No, every bit of what he did was carefully planned, coordinated, and executed to perfection.

In Dorian’s mind, this interview was the last straw. This was the best opportunity he’d get and he had no choice but to succeed.

He knew his strengths and how to play them. Growing up very fashion-oriented, he knew what kind of impression his appearance could make. Everything had to match and there was a rule he’d made long ago when it came to first impressions. The colors he wore needed to be eye catching, nothing dull and easily overlooked, but also nothing that was offensively bright or decorated with distasteful patterns. His shirt was blue, a pretty shade between sapphire and navy, enough to be not too bright nor too dark. Made of royal oxford fabric, it was a subtle showcase of status and that he had taste. A finer, more expensive or elaborate fabric like silk or satin was just too over the top and would likely make him seem like he was trying too hard or like he wanted to flaunt any kind of wealth he had, while a cheaper poly-blend might make it seem as though he was putting less thought into his wardrobe or that he didn’t have the finances for something more. He indulged with a silk tie, however, keeping it simple and slate grey in color, setting it off against the lovely blue hue of his shirt.

Slacks were slacks, in his opinion and didn’t vary too much; so long as he wasn’t sporting raggedy denim jeans or khakis he felt like just black slacks were sufficient. His black dress shoes were polished and without a scuff mark in sight. His cufflinks were solid silver, polished like his shoes and worth a pretty penny. They’d belonged to his great-great grandfather and were a gift from his parents for his sixteenth birthday, an odd gift to some, but he cherished them, fingering the Pavus house crest engraved into each one. He’d also exchanged his mage’s pendant for another, a small oval sapphire that was tastefully slung on a silver chain and pulsed lightly against his chest. 

Dorian gripped the sink in his bathroom, turning his face this way and that. He’d shaved, trimmed his mustache, had his eyes lined lightly with eyeliner, lips smoothed with balm, and had his hair set perfectly in place with gel. He took the time to stare at his reflection and felt choked for a moment, seeing for the first time in years a very brief reflection of himself from years past. This was a Dorian he’d believed to be long ago buried, smothered by the realities of life, beaten back by the scolding of every news channel in Tevinter and mocked by gossip magazines. The Dorian before that never knew the need to keep his head down and eyes to the floor.

“All of them be damned,” he muttered to himself because he couldn’t allow his mind to drift, he needed to stay focused and in control and appear to be the most competent man in all of Thedas. His stunning looks were only the first part of succeeding through this interview. He knew the other very important rule to successfully sell himself as an unblemished hard worker, was to convince the other person he believed every single word he spoke.

\-------------

Eight minutes early to the interview, Dorian patted himself on the back for his timing. He wasn’t late which in and of itself was already a good start and he wasn’t so early to appear overly enthusiastic and careless with time management. He was already familiar with the company, simply named _Enchantments_ which easily denoted their specialization: enchantments. The company was one of many daughter companies to the top business known as The Circle which was world famous and had a very extensive history dating back hundreds of years with their initial work being an established place of safety and schooling for mages. It was rumored that it once coexisted with the Templar order back in its infancy so many centuries ago. This business was packed with history, both cemented and sketchy, and was the top place for a business mage to seek work. He’d have to splurge on that very expensive rosé wine Vivienne liked so much as a thank you for setting him up with an interview in a place he never would have believed he’d be.

Working very hard to calm his nerves, Dorian glanced about the small room he was seated in, the waiting room just outside of his interviewer’s office. Behind him the entire wall was glass, overlooking the city of Val Royeaux from forty stories up. The sun was growing high in the sky and the windows faced east so sunlight poured in behind him, setting the matte finished cerulean walls alight and shone against a large potted plant across the room. The leaves didn’t shine and for some reason Dorian felt more than satisfied that he could potentially be working for a company that didn’t settle for fake plants.

The secretary behind the desk on the opposite side of the room had been pleasant, her eyes skimming over Dorian with an almost interested look and had asked him to take a seat while he waited. Dorian wasn’t so blind to be unable to see an attractive woman and she was, indeed, very attractive with long ringlets of red hair and eyes a lovely shade of moss. She’d announced his presence to Miss Fraust and as he waited he wasn’t ignorant to the looks she kept throwing him over her computer monitor. While glancing briefly to his phone to check the time he thought, in all honesty, that if he wasn’t certainly gay, he’d have probably asked her on a date.

Internally he scoffed at himself for thinking such things . He hadn’t been on a date in far, far too long.

A few moments later Miss Fraust’s voice announced she was ready to see him and he stood with a graceful flourish, shooting the lovely secretary a rather charming smile and chalking it up to years of practice. He received a very interested smile in return and both patted himself silently on the back and admonished his self-interested actions.

Entering Miss Fraust’s office, Dorian was immediately assaulted by a smell. Light and a bit tantalizing, he inhaled just a bit deeper as he stepped into the room and seated himself in one of the leather chairs in front of the woman’s desk. The scent was both fruity and citrus-like, making his head feel a bit light and he felt calmed, far calmer than he should have felt going into this interview. He had no inkling to fidget which he’d been fighting ferociously since his train ride into the heart of the city. Instead his hands were laced neatly in his lap and he looked to the woman who was glancing to her computer screen on the side of her desk.

Simply studying Miss Fraust’s appearance, he was given what felt sort of like a sucker punch that knocked the air from his lungs upon finding his first comparison for her was his own mother. Aquinea Thalrassian-Pavus was a woman who walked into a room and demanded attention and it seemed, just from a quick glance, that Miss Fraust was much the same. Hair an even golden blonde, it was short and came to her jaw line, styled in big waves that swept it back from her face which was clearly done with great time and effort. Cat eye glasses the color of plum sat elegantly on her short nose, giving her a look that might be described as firm or strict but Dorian could see it was simple composure; this was a woman who was clearly in control.

“Mister Pavus,” the woman spoke and her voice was deep and cool, sensual in a way and Dorian was certain she had no troubles commanding any of her employees with a voice like that. Miss Fraust turned in her chair to sit perfectly and symmetrically behind her desk, hands moving to lace together and rest before her. Then her eyes were on him.

In Tevinter, people loved to have parties. The Altus, especially, were always so keen to invite the rest of the social class to their wildly elaborate estates and go all out with food and entertainment. It was his country’s way of sizing each other up, seeing what the competition was like and going above and beyond to overshadow them. In Fereldan, it was all about flexing to see who had the biggest muscles. In Tevinter, it was all about showing off to see who had the most money and influence. Between the two he’d gladly take having some muscles flexed around him.

With Miss Fraust, he could see her eyes roaming over him and he felt like he was home again, attending a particular party when he was sixteen and Elliot Curlain was looking him over, sizing him up and determining his worth. He hated being looked at like that all the time but he wasn’t so beyond admitting he’d done his fair share of giving the look. Miss Fraust’s eyes went from his face and down his chest, taking stock of so many things, Dorian knew, from his clothing to his physique to his style to the state of his fingernails. He did the same, eyes looking this woman over. Slim and still fairly young, she couldn’t be more than forty-five and was dressed beautifully in a silk white blouse, open about the neck with a neckline low enough to be seductive but still work appropriate. He easily recognized it as one of Vivienne’s ensembles and wondered if it was worn simply because of Vivienne’s hand in this interview. Either it was a simple coincidence or it gave indication to how this woman worked.

Dorian felt his eyes fix on her mage’s pendant -pink sapphire with platinum- while he worked out his impression of this woman who he’d been in the presence of for a whole two minutes. A mage, clearly, and a woman with power. He couldn’t tell from the surrounding office if she enjoyed flaunting that power (no true personal touches, no family photos or such nor any significant mementos, certificates or awards being obviously displayed) or not. He was leaning towards not and he realized that he needed to be careful here because of this.

He’d already worked out she was a ‘Vint, just like himself. And a Tevinter who didn’t flaunt their power was either a true anomaly or they had something to hide.

“Your résumé is impressive, despite a lack of experience.” His résumé sat before her, pages stacked perfectly and stapled. She didn’t glance down at it, instead keeping her eyes trained on him. Luckily Dorian had been trained from an early age in these sorts of interactions and was able to hold the eye contact with very little discomfort. His back was ramrod straight and tense and he hoped she couldn’t notice. “Quite the itinerary you have, you worked hard to be very well rounded. Financial classes, business management and organization, I/O psychology studies, advertisement and marketing…very impressive.” Her lips, still full despite her age (botox, he was sure) curled very slightly at their corners.

“My breadth of experience allows me to be more flexible,” he spoke, still holding her look with his own.

“It does indeed,” she said lowly and Dorian was gaining the faint impression that she wasn’t so interested in his top grades at university.

Miss Fraust stood from her seat then and turned her back to him, gliding gracefully to standing at the full glass wall behind her desk. Her standing made him wary. He’d believed, just for a moment there, that this was going so well, that he could really have a chance here.

Until she stood up.

Nerves flaring, Dorian watched her back as she stood there quietly. He had to put a conscious stopper to his right foot which had started to tap against the floor. His knuckles were on the edge of turning white with how tight they were laced together. This was one thing he hated with other Tevinters; they were never straightforward. Normally their actions had some underlining meaning. She didn’t get up because she needed to stretch her legs or wished to see the view, oh no. Dorian didn’t know her intentions but he had the distinct feeling she was trying to make him nervous.

“Lady Vivienne tells me you’re a very talented mage.”

He didn’t answer. She was looking for something from him and he didn’t know if answering would give it to her or not. His mind was buzzing frantically now; if this was all part of the interview it was certainly unconventional. He’d prepared for the standard drilling of questions, not this weird manipulation of his anxiety. He’d run from Tevinter in part to get _away_ from all the mind tricks. He swallowed his nerves and waited.

“I’m always looking for powerful mages, Mister Pavus,” Fraust said, still not turning to him. Dorian couldn’t fathom why his magical power had anything to do with his ability to handle paperwork or manage other employees. “But I feel,” she went on and finally she turned, walking around her desk and leaned back against it, standing directly in front of Dorian now. “I feel that you’ve got that particular talent that I’m looking for.”

He couldn’t stop the questioning look he gave her and it was too late to go back to his carefully constructed polite face. She piqued his curiosity and now that she saw she did, her smile grew just that bit more. “I should cut to the chase, then. I’m looking for a representative, a very important position. You’d meet with clients mostly, you’d work to help sell our company to interested parties and allow us to keep expanding. I’ve been searching for someone to fulfill this position, someone charming, knowledgeable…someone with that _special_ talent.” Her eyes were fixed on him in such a way that he was definitely uncomfortable now.

“What exactly is this talent that I have?” He hated to ask but he had to. She was being so vague and he knew his question was the wrong one to ask but this whole interview, suddenly, seemed very wrong.

“Back home,” Miss Fraust spoke and those two words ignited a bitter cold in his gut before she even went further, “you have a reputation. It’s a stain on your life, I’m sure, but I’m here to help you, Mister Pavus. For centuries everyone has been taught to fear your kind of power, but I say why fear it? Embrace it! And use it to further yourself _and_ your employers.”

He was starting to connect the pieces together and every bit of dread he’d felt since moving to Val Royeaux was suddenly felt just then, all at once. “What’re you asking from me, exactly?” he managed to croak out because he needed absolute clarity.

“You’re quite charming,” she went on and still, Dorian almost couldn’t believe it, she refused to be straightforward. “I don’t want your talent for blood magic to make you feel shameful. I want to help you help us utilize that power.”

He’d stood abruptly when the words ‘blood magic’ had left her lips. Heart beating frantically in his chest, he interrupted her with a very firm, “I believe you’ve gotten the wrong impression seeing as I’m most definitely _not_ a blood mage nor have I _ever_ in my life used blood magic.”

Both gone silent, the pair stared at each other. Dorian’s head spun and he was suddenly overcome with the every single bit of fear and frustration he’d tried to leave behind years ago. Managing to hold her almost impassive stare with his furious one, he took a step to the side of his chair to make to leave. “It seems then,” Miss Fraust finally spoke and she turned from him, “that our interests here differ vastly.” Sitting with utmost composure behind her desk once more, Miss Fraust refused to even look at him. “Have a good day, Mister Pavus.”

He moved so quickly he nearly toppled his chair. Stomping across the room, Dorian grasped the door handle and was about to throw the door open when Miss Fraust spoke once more.

“Oh, and Mister Pavus, know that not a word of what happened leaves this room.” Daring a glance over his shoulder, Dorian saw her piercing eyes pinning him down with a serious look, relaying, for the first time, absolute truth in her words. “Any news that you’ve revealed anything I’ve spoken of and I’ll ensure you that your infamous scandal will seem like nothing more than a punishing wrist slap.”

Then he bolted out the door, racing through the waiting room and missing the pretty secretary, who began to stand when she saw him, the piece of paper with her phone number fluttering from her hand when he stormed out the door and to the elevator.

Outside of the building, Dorian stood on the sidewalk for a moment, looking left and right and working hard to control is breathing. Needing a distraction he pulled out his phone to simply check the time when he saw he’d received a text from Viv.

_Let me know how everything goes, please._

The fact that Vivienne had set this up for him hurt. He knew she was completely oblivious to Miss Fraust’s intentions and therefore she held no blame in this at all. What hurt was that she’d been trying to help him and it’d all gone so wrong and now he had to tell her the bad news. Suddenly his fury turned into despair.

With shaking fingers he typed a message back to her.

_All went well, but it seems we had varying interests. But thank you so much for helping._

\--------

When he was a child, Dorian remembered first learning about blood mages.

There’d been a story from a smaller town in Tevinter and the story wouldn’t have blown up the way it did if the beloved slave of a powerful magister hadn’t been involved. For months a string of disappearances had been happening, slaves going missing which no one truly batted an eye at. It seemed to be a remote case until a magister who was a high ranking official of the Magisterium, reported that her slave, who had accompanied her on a trip to a city near where the disappearances were cited, went missing.

This sparked national news and suddenly reports of the disappearances flooded in and it became a national outrage.

Dorian remembered the moment when the suspect had been apprehended. He was ten and with his parents in the family sitting room, the flat screen television playing the news. He’d had his nose stuck in a book when his father muttered loudly in disgust, “Damn blood mages, cheating their way to power.”

The blood mage had apparently been kidnapping slaves to sacrifice in blood rituals, simply seeking power. What he remembered most was his father’s tone of absolute abhorrent disgust on the subject and he knew immediately blood magic was a practice never to get involved with and, especially after researching and understanding truly what blood magic was, he knew it was a thing to loathe and fear.

He had multiple reasons for running from Tevinter, and the awful stigma that stuck to him was one of the biggest. He couldn’t really expect to find a steady job there, not with the suspicious looks he got everywhere he went, but then again, it seemed Val Royeaux couldn’t give him a job either. He should have known that running from Tevinter didn’t at all mean he could escape being a pariah. A gnawing feeling in his gut made him feel like there would always be something wrong with him that made him unacceptable.

Dorian frowned at the cup in his hand. He sat unsteadily in the single uneven chair in his kitchen. The cup was plastic, pale blue and worn; he couldn’t even afford glass to drink from. He set the cup down harder than he imagined he actually did, the bottom splashing a bit in the pool of red wine that was soaking into the ruined wood of the table from where he missed pouring his wine into the cup just moments before. The first bottle that he’d drained was abandoned on the floor under the table and he kept hitting it with his bare toes.

Focusing on the room was difficult with his vision a bit blurry but the wine was already numbing his mind and allowing him mild peace from his troubling thoughts. He needed something, he knew, a distraction, a moment of reprieve because he was beginning to fear he would lose any bit of sanity he had left.

He had nothing, though. No friends, no family. He wouldn’t bother Vivienne with his troubles; she’d done so much for him already. He contemplated going out for a walk around the block, try to clear his head but it was unsafe with him simply being a mage, let alone a drunk mage, and the unsavory populace always had him on edge, enough so that in the past few weeks he’d refrained from wearing any gaudy or eye catching jewelry that caught the greedy looks from some sketchy people.

Drunk enough to be faintly out of his mind, Dorian blinked rapidly a few times and stared at his hand. He wasn’t holding his cup any longer, in fact when he looked around he found it knocked to the floor, red liquid streaming across the scuffed linoleum. His hand was still occupied, however, and when he looked at it he noticed he was clutching his phone tightly, a number displayed and his phone showing that he was calling the number. His heart jumped so badly it felt like he was having a true heart attack. The number was familiar, he’d stared at it so many times.

About to jab the ‘end call’ button, his impaired reflexes left him too slow and a voice answered, “’lo?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I first apologize so so so much for not getting to respond to everyone's comments! They were GREATLY appreciated, every single one! I should have also clarified that my surgery won't happen till around January so we've got time till I'm laid up :P
> 
> I do hope you've all enjoyed this chapter and I'm REALLY looking forward to writing the next one :) Can I also say that if anyone has input on tags and whether I should add any or take any away, please speak up! Taking advice from others is the only way to make everything better!


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